


And Why Does It Burn?

by torpedo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Little Mermaid Fusion, Dark elements, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Mermaids, Sailors, Slow Burn, historical accuracy in banal fanfiction, mermaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torpedo/pseuds/torpedo
Summary: “Ghost ships are just tides doing their work on abandoned ships,” Combeferre says without looking up from his map, “and there are no such things as mermaids.”“Well then,” Joly huffs at his second mate, “go tell the one off the port bow to stop flirting with Enjolras.”





	And Why Does It Burn?

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Hans Christian Andersen, historical novels about tall ships, the entire Greek mythos, and to a lesser extent, Walt Disney. This is a vague nod to all of you, in the worst way.
> 
> And as always, a special thank you to almoststarted, my beta, my beetle.

Suspended over the water, their sole fishing net writhes and twists, something large inside, larger than a swordfish, with horrifying, unnatural, flexible shapes. When Joly, his boatswain, had called him over to investigate, Enjolras hadn’t had anything in mind - and yet, this is certainly unexpected.

Slowly, some shapes begin to become clear despite the twisting. A long, broad tail.

An arm.

“It’s a man!” Joly gasps.

“A corpse!” Their newest hire, Marius, corrects faintly.

“No,” Enjolras whispers, as a pale, inhuman face appears from the maelstrom of scales and flesh turning a horrible gavotte within the net.

Its big black eyes light on Enjolras, and from then they do not move. It freezes in mid-action, whiplike body tense and unmoving.

“ _ Rusalka!”  _ Feuilly cries, staggering back a half-step and clutching his hammer to his chest. “ _ Bozhe moy _ !”

There is a long and rather pregnant pause.

And then the creature speaks.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

It is the single most lovely voice any of them has ever heard.

Enjolras blinks at it. He might love to have a more compelling reaction, but he is flabbergasted. He looks around at the assembled seamen, about half his crew, who shrug disbelievingly at him.

He looks at the creature again.

“ _ Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? _ ” It repeats, impatient, glaring at Enjolras now.

“Uh… thou art more lovely and more temperate?” Enjolras hazards, baffled.

All at once, the creature  _ relaxes _ . It slumps into the netting, eyes narrow, unblinking.

Though it maintains its dark gaze on Enjolras, the look is much more speculative in nature.

“Well,” Enjolras decides suddenly, “we must cut it down.”

“Cut it down? Are you mad?” Courfeyrac, his first mate and best friend, whirls on him, speaking above the sudden muttering of the crew. His glance at Enjolras’ face is humorous in its warring combination of horrified and impressed.

“I’ll be driven mad by your insolence or not at all,” Enjolras answers without any real venom. “We cannot leave it to languish, twisted in our net. It’s capable of thought. So we must be capable of mercy.”

“It’s capable of speech, maybe, but we don’t know if it can  _ think _ !”

“It can,” the musical, lilting voice replies from within the net. It slithers around within the round confines of the net again, then falls disarmingly still.

The crew members who can abandon their posts at this point all have. They’re gathered around in a loose half-circle, staring.

“There you have it.” Enjolras is decisive when he is anything. “We must help...him.”

“Help him! HIM! A mermaid! His job is to drag sailors to their deaths!” Courfeyrac rails.

“Their ruin, technically,” it interrupts from the net in a lackadaisical way. “Death optional.” 

“Well, how encouraging,” Courfeyrac retorts.

“Wasn’t meant to be encouraging,” the beast responds in mellifluous tones. “Just honest.”

After some heated talk and silver-tongued persuasion, Enjolras has Courfeyrac convinced, and the crew has hauled in the net and untangled the beast. It flops slightly gracelessly to the deck, ungainly, in the midst of four or five flopping, gray fish. Abruptly it sits up-- if one would call it sitting. Rather, it spins and tucks its tail around itself and perches up on it, somewhat like a python; as fast as one, too, and as unnerving.

Pale, pale skin, like a body submerged underwater for days, but slightly tinged green. Dark hair, dark eyes, and dark glimmering scales from the waist down, if it has a waist indeed. When it moves, they glimpse a dark sail of a tail fin, thin membrane stretched between dozens of bony spines.

“That is the ugliest mermaid ever,” someone points out-- Bahorel, Enjolras thinks.

“Seriously,” someone agrees.

There is a general murmur of assent. The mermaid in question huffs, but in a way that seems almost good-natured to those who hear it.

Enjolras whirls on them.  “You shouldn’t judge any creature based on looks, no matter their species,” he chastises. “That attitude is reprehensible, horrible.” **  
** Suddenly the creature smiles, a wide grin of bright white teeth in a pale, slightly greenish face. It points imperiously at Enjolras. “I could be horrible for  _ you _ , baby.”

There is a long, horrified silence.

“Are you trying to seduce the captain?” Bahorel cries giddily.

Enjolras sputters.

“I’m trying,” the creature admits, “but he doesn’t seem to be biting. So, what for it, boys? Is this where I beg for my life, offer you magic wishes?”

“You grant wishes?” Bahorel demands.

“No, but I’ve heard stranger things.”

“Bahorel, enough,” Enjolras orders. The gunner’s fearlessness is legendary, and Enjolras doesn’t want him intimidating it. To the creature he says, “Now, nothing. You’re free. You’ll receive no threats from us.”

The creature, shining wet in the sun, stares at him for a long while.

“Who lets a mermaid go free?” the mermaid-- merman?-- muses. “Who doesn’t kill him, or at the very least capture him?” He casts one interested look at all of them before suddenly dropping to the deck, pushing off with vastly powerful arms, over the railing and into the inky water faster than any of them would have guessed.

 

* * *

 

“He was male.”

“I noticed.”

Later that day, the crew gathers in distracted clumps, unable to contain their discussions.

“I thought mermaids were beautiful? And also, you know, maids?”

“Apparently not.”

“Do you think Enjolras was scared?”

“Captain’s never scared of anything.”

“I don’t like it,” Bossuet mutters. “Mermaids are dark harbingers, bringers of floods, wrecks, storms, and death.”

“Excellent use of the word harbinger,” Bahorel says with a grin.

“My grandfather taught me they were benevolent spirits,” Marius disagrees earnestly. “They bestow boons, and sometimes fall in love with honest sailors.”

“Combeferre would know more, but he was below. He doesn’t believe us,” Joly muses.

“He doesn’t believe  _ all _ of us?!”

“Says it was a shared delusion, or some such logical nonsense. The cabin boy is griping that he missed it.” 

Bossuet and Marius share a surprised look. Jehan doesn’t gripe about, well, anything. He’s been elated to be at sea since they picked him up in Ireland nine months ago, educated enough to assist the captain and mates, but not of high enough birth to get far in life.

Enjolras emerges from below deck and glares at all of them. “Still gossiping, gentlemen?” he reprimands. “Do you need help finding work?”

“No, sir!” Marius cries, scrambling. Bahorel laughs and clasps Marius by the shoulder, to lead him away and no doubt teach him something useful.

“You’re right, as always, dear leader,” Bahorel chuckles over his shoulder, “but have mercy. When are any of these sea dogs going to see a  _ mermaid  _ again?”

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, these sea dogs see a mermaid again.

 

* * *

 

“Ghost ships are just tides doing their work on abandoned ships,” Combeferre says without looking up from his map, “and there are no such things as mermaids.”

“Well then,” Joly huffs at his second mate, “go tell the one off the port bow to stop flirting with Enjolras.”

 

* * *

 

“Boss, stand back from him,” Bossuet is saying when Combeferre reaches the deck, trailing Joly in an almost bored way.

“Aye! He’s a-- he’s a siren!” Jehan cries, half fearful and half ecstatic.

“He?  _ He _ ? Sirens are  _ female. _ Have you all gone mad?” Enjolras demands haughtily.

“Verdict’s out on siren gender, actually,” Combeferre interrupts, placating and ever so precise. “Enjolras, what is going on here?”

“Ah, doctor,” Enjolras laughs and gestures out into the sea. “Tell me what to do about him.”

Combeferre looks out where Enjolras is pointing.

“ _ Man overboard! _ ” he cries.

“No, no, no,” Enjolras says over him, laughing. “Look harder.”

He stares at the glinting water.

The man in the ocean waves at him.

“Hello, handsome,” the man calls in the single most exquisite tones Combeferre has ever heard. At his astonished face, the merman laughs like a tinkling bell and submerges, then breaches the water in a playful leap, like a gamboling porpoise. Eventually he settles down, as does his laughter.

Abruptly, he slams his tail hard against the hull. They feel the tremor of it in their very boots, and many of the men curse outright. “Tell my new husband to let me on board.”

 

* * *

 

Hours later, as Jehan serves up rations, the men are all a-flutter with their second encounter -- some very interested, some annoyed and angry, and all very disturbed.

“I’ve heard that mermen are ugly. It adds up,” Joly is saying, a nervous look to his face. “I don’t like this at all.”

“That’s quite enough, gentlemen,” Enjolras interrupts.

“I don’t mean anything by it! ‘Tis objective fact.”

“I liked his beard!” Marius decides.

Courfeyrac frowns at him. “I expected a trident; they always have tridents in their paintings.”

“And green hair, like seaweed!”

“His hair  _ was _ green.”

“No, it was clearly black.”

“It had a greenish cast to it, though.”

“What if it could be used in medicine, like proper seaweed!”  
  
“His hair was  _ not seaweed _ ,” Combeferre snaps, “and this is how rumors get started.”

“Oh, I wish you would have let him on board, Captain,” Marius breathes. When he intercepts Enjolras’ look, he blushes darkly. “I don’t mean-- I’m not questioning your judgment, sir! Just… it would have been nice to see him up close again.”

“I never thought to see a  _ merrow _ at all,” Jehan observes dreamily. He squints a bit. “No red cap, though-- that’s something to write home about.”

“Is a  _ merrow _ much different than a mermaid back home, then?” Courfeyrac asks, ruffling Jehan’s red hair.

“No, not much. But we say they have a red cap. Their red cap is charmed, and if they lose it, why, they lose their mermaid stature. I’m not surprised he’s ugly, poor dear. We always said they were, but with green teeth, green skin, green hair. Much greener all around! Me gran said they have a red nose, squinty little eyes-- poor old gran! He’s only faintly green, this one, and his eyes are large as anything!” 

“No red nose either,” Enjolras points out, smiling. “Your grandmother will be disappointed indeed.” He stands. “Next watch starts soon, gents. Let’s be ready for it, shall we?”

* * *

 

 

They run into him again, returning the other direction, during a terribly long and terrifying calm.

The schooner is barely moving, and after several weeks, tensions are growing high as their risk grows greater.

The mermaid clings to the bobstay, heckling poor Joly as he checks the fastenings on the bowsprit, jutting out of the front of the boat. It has attracted some of the crew’s attention, but with the lack of wind, the heat, and the dwindling resources, the sheen of wonder is wearing off of the encounter. Many of the men are too peeved to be interested in the mermaid, and most of those that would be are hard at work.

Joly, for instance.

Poor Joly, who, after fifteen straight minutes of antagonization, is wearing thin.

“What are you doing now?”

“Leave me alone!” Joly wails. 

“Shan’t,” the merman returns. “You’re too lovely. Plus, your knots are too loose.”

“They are  _ not _ , you miserable harpy!”

“What would happen if I cut this thing?” he asks, unconcerned, swaying from the bobstay.

“You had better  _ not _ !” Joly screeches. “Get away from my riggings, you!”

The merman laughs, the sound tinkling through the air, alarming in its purity and disappears beneath the foam.

Feuilly claps Joly manfully on the shoulder, possibly in solidarity, and leaves, carpenter’s kit in hand.

As he trails the port side, the mermaid appears again, leaping in and out of the water offside the ship, blowing kisses at him.

Feuilly ignores him.

“The strong, silent type, eh?” he calls from the waves. “I like that in a man.”

Courfeyrac looks up as Feuilly approaches. “Did Joly talk to you about the masts?”

“Yes.” Feuilly lifts his tool kit. “I check now. Also, thing is back.” He points off the port bow.

“Thing?” Courfeyrac moves to the rail. “Oh, God in heaven.”

“Hello, Courfeyrac, my beauty,” the mermaid calls.

Courfeyrac freezes. “How do you know my name?” he demands.

“I know a lot of things,” he answers breezily. 

Courfeyrac sighs. “Don’t suppose you know when any wind is coming.”

There is a long pause.

“You  _ do _ know!”

The creature sinks beneath the surface, and for a long while, Courfeyrac thinks he’s gone for good.

He resurfaces with a thoughtful expression. “How much is the information worth to you?”

Courfeyrac eyes him narrowly. “Do you have a name?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” he answers archly.

Courfeyrac sighs. “If you tell me your name, I’ll get the captain up here to negoti--”

“Grantaire,” he answers, immediately. “My name is Grantaire.”

* * *

 

 

“What do you want, Grantaire?” Enjolras says, his golden voice confident.

Grantaire stills in the water. “To hear you say my name,” he breathes.

Enjolras flushes a shocking pink and begins to storm away.

“No, wait!” Grantaire calls, in tones too beautiful to be commanding. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It’s in my nature.” He visibly shakes himself, then grins at him. “I can be good.”

“You have information about the weather,” Enjolras grinds out. “Will you share it?”

“I will,” Grantaire answers shrewdly, “if you will do the same.”

Enjolras looks to Combeferre, who narrows his eyes. “What information do you seek?”

“Oh,” Grantaire says easily, “a lot of things. Can I come aboard?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Indefinitely?”

Grantaire laughs, high and bright. “You should woo a man before he moves in with you, you know.” Enjolras’ expression hardens, and Grantaire relents. “For a parley only.”

Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras share some looks. Nearly the whole crew has gathered around at this point-- with the ship becalmed, they’ve begun to catch up their work and gather around. Only Feuilly, the carpenter, busies himself with a task, repairing the wood while the weather was good for it. Still, he keeps his tasks close to the action.

The crew looks on at their leaders in admiration. It’s not just that the three are learned men-- though they are, as captains and mates often are, and that is an impressive thing by itself-- their admiration stems from the way these three men seems to communicate without words, half of the time.

Enjolras nods. “Marius, Bossuet, help him?”

Bossuet laughs with uncertainty. “Me? I’m liable to drop him, you know my luck--”

“I don’t need much help,” Grantaire points out. “Keep me stable, that’s all.”

Grantaire disappears and then breaches the water, Marius and Bossuet reaching down to grab his arms and pull him up onto deck. With their combined efforts, it’s shockingly smooth, despite the splash of water.

“Well,” Grantaire says, making eyes at Marius. “Aye, avast, and so on.”

Marius blushes and lets go of him immediately.

“Is the water a problem?” Grantaire asks, worrying a lip between his teeth, staring at the deck. The sailors chuckle. “It won’t sink?”

“We pump the ship every day,” Joly answers promptly. “I’m in charge of the deck, so I make sure of it.”

“Then the ship has leaks?” Grantaire gasps.

“Every ship, no matter how well built, takes on water,” Combeferre answers. “You don’t know this?”

“Never been on a ship before. What are these called?”

“Cannons.” Bahorel smacks one fondly. “Those’re my territory. They’re used for--”

“I know what they’re used for,” Grantaire says dismissively. “Just not their names.”

“Is this what you want?” Combeferre asks, eyeing the mermaid shrewdly. “Just, trivia?”

“We said we would share information,” Grantaire returns, inscrutable.

“But surely this is mundane!” Courfeyrac cries. “I have to admit, I was expecting more.”

“Fair enough,” Grantaire says. His black eyes lock onto Enjolras. “Why did you let me go?”

Enjolras raises his chin stubbornly. “It was the right thing to do.”

“The right thing to do,” Grantaire repeats quietly. He truly has the most beautiful voice, enchanting, soft, melodic, and seductive.

“What are you?” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire’s eyes leave Enjolras’ face at last. He laughs.

“You know the answer to that.”

“But I don’t know what it really  _ means _ ,” Combeferre insists.

Grantaire laughs. “Well, what does it mean to be a man?”

Enjolras smiles, very slightly, as Combeferre falls silent. Grantaire’s gaze tracks back to Enjolras’ face.

“What is your name?”

“Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” he tests it out, flowing from his mouth, the high and low of it an elegant song.

“The wind?” Enjolras asks quietly.

Grantaire sighs. “Within three hours, from the southeast, your sails will find it again.”

The crew mutters with amazement and hope.

“Thank you, Grantaire.” Enjolras smiles. The merman smiles back, and it is horrifying.

“Gentlemen,” Grantaire nods, before turning on the powerful muscles of his tail, grabbing the rail, and vaulting over it into the sea.

* * *

 

 

They keep meeting him on their boat as they trek back and forth.

He continues to attempt to seduce them.

Kind of.

* * *

 

 

“Combeferre, why does he flirt with us so?” Jehan asks one night, eyes alight with curiosity.

Combeferre sighs.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “But from everything  _ I’ve _ heard, mermaids are meant to sing men to their deaths.”

“That’s what  _ I _ said!”

“Bossuet, you flirt with him all the time.”

“Well,” Bossuet stammers, cheeks pinking a little, “people change their minds.”

“Maybe he was telling the truth that first time,” Marius says. “Maybe they don’t  _ have _ to kill people.”

“I don’t think he wants to hurt anyone.”

They whip around to find Enjolras standing behind them. Their apologies die on their lips when they see his speculative face.

“For what my judgment’s worth,” he continues, “I think he’s harmless. And I kind of think it’s by choice.”

Combeferre hums. “It’s speculation, though.”

“Courfeyrac agrees with me now.”

Combeferre laughs a little. “It’s  _ good _ speculation. I don’t know enough to make an informed guess. There are different stories all over the world.”

“Feuilly,” Jehan asks, turning to find him on deck, “what did you call him, that first day?”

“ _ Rusalka _ ,” he answers, unsmiling. “It is bad thing.”

“Sounds like a Russian cookie to me.”

“Is no cookie.” Feuilly sighs and finishes sanding down a plank. He comes over and leans against the masthead. “I am no teacher, my friends. But it is--” He cuts himself off abruptly and waves his hand in the air to demonstrate something. It was baffling. “Ghost, maybe? Witch? Not real living. They do bad things, dancing under moon, calling out to young man.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Calling out for killing. Drowning that man, and children.”

“Why?”

Feuilly shrugs. “Some say, these women were murdered, because they will have baby and some man does  _ not _ want them to have baby.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

“Some say, they are killing themselves. Some say, they are dying during child-passing. So, they punish man and child.”

“You come from a dark people,” Bahorel observes, coming up from below.

“Maybe so,” Feuilly agrees. “But some say they can be good maybe also. Can bring water to farm, or bless you with many plants and many children.”

“Well, that’s more like it!” 

“Yes. It is better,” he says simply. “But  _ rusalka  _ should be beautiful, like mermaid girls in your tales. Maybe green hair. I don’t know about leg.”

Feuilly falls silent at that, and they all muse on it, before breaking up their chat and getting back to the never-ending work: cleaning the deck; repairing, hooking, and handling the sails; oiling the masts; repairing the rigging; keeping watch--for dangers that apparently ranged into the mystical, now.

* * *

 

 

“What are you doing?”

Bossuet startles and looks down. In the inky black water, he vaguely sees the white form of Grantaire’s body, keeping pace with the ship.

“Oh! It’s you.”

“It’s me.” He disappears momentarily before breaching the surface, just reaching the deck with his strong arms and pulling himself aboard. Bossuet squeaks.

“Should you be up here?!”

Grantaire shrugs. “I don’t know. Your handsome captain let me up before. What are you doing?” he repeats, settling down near the railing peacefully.

“Keeping watch,” Bossuet answers, uncertain. “I think I’m doing a poor job.  _ Courf!” _

Courf comes jogging along, a tin cup in hand. “I heard voices and-- you, again?” he asks, eyes lighting on Grantaire, who grins unrepentantly.

“Hello, Courfeyrac. What’s  _ that _ ?”

“Grog.”

“What is it for?”

“Uh.” Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows at Bossuet, who just shakes his head. “Drinking.”

“Why is it  _ shiny _ ?”

“What? Oh! Oh. This is a rum tot. It’s a cup, for drinking.”

Grantaire’s eyes gleam. “Can I have it?”

“What. No. It’s mine.”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, all three of them are tipsy.

“I hate night watch,” Bossuet confesses.

“Why?” Grantaire asks, his voice a melody in a single word.

“It’s difficult, and I’m always tired.”

“More difficult than day?”

“Well, yeah. It’s darker.”

“So?”

“It’s harder to see.”

Grantaire stares at him, mouth agape. “By how much?”

“Uh..”

Grantaire hums. “Enough to complain, anyway. How interesting!”

He shifts uneasily. “Oh, I don’t like this. I feel like I’m giving you ammunition to judge us.”

Grantaire laughs. “Don’t worry; I’m charmed, as always. You’re safe from  _ me. _ ”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows. “Interesting emphasis. Meaning we wouldn’t be safe from… others?”

Grantaire’s smile is expansive with the rum. “Like I said, don’t worry. I’ve a claim to you. No one is going to bother you.”

And he steals Courfeyrac’s tin cup and disappears over the edge.

“You  _ bastard!” _ Courf hollers.

 

* * *

 

Again, and again, they run into him. He sneaks aboard or demands entrance grandly. He has a staggering number of questions: What are winches? Why do they need so many ropes? What are clothes?

He allows them to ask some, too, though he’s just as likely to laugh at them as answer.

“How similar are you to a human?” Marius asks one day.

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “In what way?”

“Like… well, I don’t know how to ask this.  _ Physically. _ ”

Grantaire’s grin dawns like a bloody sunrise. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question. You will have to be very, very specific.”

Marius blushes so red they fear he will faint.

* * *

 

 

He’s subject to moods that seem strange to them; fits of pique, and occasionally rage.

He’s especially interested in their stories of mermaids, of selkies and sirens, especially as told by Combeferre. He loves to contradict their various folklores, and it’s through this practice that they begin to learn about him; while Grantaire is very cagey about answering direct questions about mermaid life, he  _ loves _ discussing what  _ humans _ think of mermaids, and what myths and legends exist.

What little they know about him stems from one fact: he seems utterly fascinated by the human world.

He sits, rapt with attention, as Jehan explains the premise of the 1,001 tales of the Arabian Nights.

When Jehan gets to the bit about the sea-people, Grantaire laughs delightedly.

“Is that me?” he cries. “Imagine; me, but with your funny legs, like a crab!”

“I don’t look like crab,” Feuilly grouses. Grantaire winks at him.

“Go on, gentle Jehan, tell me about the underwater society of yore!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Combeferre,” Jehan pleads one calm night when they haven’t seen Grantaire in a while, “you  _ must  _ know more of the ancient tales of merfolk.”

A rousing cry goes up among the men, and Combeferre groans.

“I know only myths, only enough to--”

The men boo and interrupt and beg.

“I’m a  _ navigator _ , and a  _ surgeon _ , this is hardly--”

Another round of cries and pleas.

Combeferre sighs.

“Scholars tell us that in ancient Assyria--”

“Where’s that?”

“The lands off the east side of the Mediterranean. Scholars say--”

“Where did Assyria go, then?”

“It’s still there. Its name changed.”

“Why?”

“Someone  _ shut him up _ , I want to hear Combeferre’s story!”

“The powerful goddess Atargatis transformed herself into a mermaid out of shame.”

“Shame?”

“For accidentally murdering her human lover.”

“Ooooooooooooh.”

“They say he could not survive her divine love-making, and so died. After she bore him a daughter, she cast herself into a lake, trying to become a fish. However, her beauty was too much to be compromised, so she only transformed by half.”

There is a long pause.

“I’m not sure that makes sense,” Courfeyrac says slowly.

“It’s a  _ myth, _ ” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes. “They rarely do.”

“Tell us another!”

“Tell us about  _ Triton _ !”

“The most well-known of mermen, Triton, the son of Poseidon and Amphitrite, was the messenger of the sea. He had barnacles of great sea shells on his shoulders.”

“That must’ve hurt.”

“Did someone scrape them off of him, from time to time?”

“I do not know,” Combeferre says dismissively. “Let’s see… a fine story of him is his part in the story of Jason and the Argonauts. When they were driven onto the land in Libya, the crew carried the ship to his lake, where he welcomed them with a gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“A clod of dirt.”

Joly snorts. “He gives gifts like Bossuet.”

“Hey!”

“Long story short, he guided them through the marsh and back to the Mediterranean. The Greeks had another merman, Glaucus. I know less about him; if I’m remembering my Ovid correctly, he transformed into a blue-green man with a fishy member where his legs had been.”

“A fishy  _ what?” _

“Are there any other eye witness accounts?” Marius asks above the laughter.

“No.”

“That’s not true! Columbus saw 3 mermaids near--”

“A lie!” Grantaire interrupts, appearing suddenly at their sides. They all turn to look at him, several of them shouting in alarm.

“How do you know?”

Grantaire shifts shiftily. “We all know. No one followed  _ those _ ships.” His eyes darken and seem to see nothing. “Those ships carried too much ruin of their own.”

* * *

 

 

Another time, another meeting. Grantaire has cornered Enjolras at his post, insistent question after insistent question about running a ship.

“You don’t keep a large crew.”

“Eighteen or less, if we can manage.”

Grantaire stares at him. “I’ve heard ships take on extra crew, to compensate expected loss of life?”

“Cramped quarters, sickness, scarcity of supplies,” Enjolras answers, ticking off on his fingers. “I’ve chosen men I trust, and I trust their skill to help us survive. Plus, the pay is better this way.”

* * *

 

 

“Oh, Grantaire! See, a kiss is-”  
  
“I know what a kiss is.” He smiles darkly. “Do you know what happens when a mermaid kisses a human?”  
  
There is a taut silence.  
  
“Do you want to find out?”  
  
“Grantaire,” Jehan interrupts, in a transparent attempt to move on quickly, “do all mermaids look like you?”  


He appears dumbfounded for a moment.

“Are you all… green?”

Grantaire flushes, deep and blotchy. “What kind of question is that?” he demands.

Jehan looks like he might cry. “I’m sorry! I never meant any offense!”

Grantaire leaves shortly after that, clearly scandalized.

 

* * *

 

 

“When did you first see a human?”

“My fifteenth birthday, of course.”

“Why of course?”

Grantaire hums speculatively. He doesn’t answer it.

“Did you grow up hearing tales of humans?”

“A few, I guess. My family never seemed all that interested in them, beyond the obvious task.”

Courfeyrac shifts uneasily. “Do other mermaids kill people?”

“Yes.” The answer is immediate and without emotion.

“Do they know you haven’t killed us?”

“Yes.”

“So… what is that conversation like?”

Grantaire huffs a laugh. “The same as ever.  _ There goes Grantaire, the inept, the bumbler, the completely incapable of finishing the job guy. _ ” He smiles to show it doesn’t bother him. “I don’t see the need to disabuse them of the notion.”

“How many ships have you befriended?”

Grantaire smiles. “Befriended? Is that what we are? Friends?”

Bahorel throws a dishrag at him. “I know you’re  _ my _ friend, asshole.”

Grantaire laughs. “I’ve never spent so much time around humans before,” he confesses. “Never even talked to the same ones twice.”

“So how’d you get the reputation?”

“For letting them go, obviously. And… well.”

Courfeyrac leans in. “Ooooh, he has a secret.”

Grantaire heads toward the railing.

“Oh, come on, I didn’t mean it!” Courfeyrac cries. “Grantaire!”

* * *

 

 

Grantaire is more likely to answer Enjolras’ questions than anyone’s-- except, that is, for Combeferre.

Especially if Combeferre can convince Jehan to bring wine.

“Can mermaids bear children?”

Grantaire stares at him. “Of course?”

“Are the particulars of it similar with human birth?” asks Enjolras, sitting nearby asks.

Grantaire laughed. “I have no children of my own, and I certainly don’t know how  _ you _ bear them.”

Combeferre hums thoughtfully. “That’s fair. Do merfolk give birth to live children?”

“Yes, that much I do know. Do humans?”

“Indeed.”

“No eggs?”

“Not at all.”

“Fascinating. I suppose it makes sense that it’s… compatible.”

“What do you…” Combeferre blinks at him. “Is it… are you suggesting it’s possible to… can humans and mermaids…?”

“So they say,” Grantaire hums. “I’ve never seen it done, but that’s true of a lot of things, I suppose. I’ve heard the children have the forms and souls of a human, save for a mark. The whole business is  _ very _ risky for the human parent, though.”

There is a rather stunned silence.   
“You’re an ondine,” Combeferre breathes.

Grantaire shrugs. “Well, sure, a  _ sort  _ of undine, or ondine, as you say.”

“Paracelsus knew of your kind. But they had human forms, no… tails, or whatnot.”

Grantaire grins, teeth wine-red. “Who are you going to believe?”

Combeferre doesn’t have an answer to that.

Grantaire sips the wine cup happily. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Hardly. A scholar of days past, hundreds of years ago now.”

“Hmm. What else did Grandpa teach you of ondines?”

“Not enough, I suppose. That you were not of the sea, but more like… you  _ are _ the sea.”

Grantaire stares quietly, and then nods once.

“He also suggested humans couldn’t see you.”

Grantaire snorts.

“Why would it be dangerous for the human parent?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire looks out over the water, uncomfortable. “It’s not the child, it’s the… I don’t know what you would call this. Love… bond? Between mermaid and human.”

“Like a marriage?” Combeferre guesses. Grantaire shrugs. “Like… a promise to never love another person?”

Grantaire looks over at him, nervous, before dropping his eyes. “Yes, exactly. You have this?”

“Of course,” Enjolras laughs. “Why is it dangerous?”

Grantaire looks back over the water. “If the human is unfaithful, he is fated to die,” he says simply. “By bonding his soul to merfolk, he is sharing it, so that his love might touch the eternal. Merfolk, you see, have no soul.”

Enjolras tossed his hair, impatient. “And what is a soul? Shall I believe in it without evidence?”

Grantaire stares at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“Of a thing whereby there can be no certainty, I naturally cannot be certain. Nevertheless, I posit: there is no soul.”

Grantaire, lightning fast, is on the bannister of the ship. “You are a fool,” he snarls, “and know nothing of which you speak.”

And he is over the edge of the ship with barely a splash before Enjolras can react.

* * *

 

 

Combeferre begins a comprehensive record of all the mermaid stories anyone can think of, both in the crew and with everyone he can chat with at port towns. His results are not promising.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the peoples of England, Scotland, Ireland, and all of Scandinavia believe that there are women hiding in  _ every body of water _ ,” Combeferre complains over breakfast to anyone who will listen, “and these women want them  _ dead _ . Some of them have names! Specific names! LIke Jenny and Peg! Every river, every stream, every loch, the ocean, a puddle!”

“You mean, they all believe in mermaids.”

“Not really. They believe in mermaids, and finfolk, and selkies, and kelpies, puca and bucca, morgens, fairies, hobgoblins, nacks, vetehinens, Jenny Greenteeth, the Shellycoat, Peg Powler, the Brag, the Grindylow...”

The other men stare.

“And that is not an exhaustive list.”

* * *

 

 

Grantaire sometimes steals trinkets and baubles, coins and cufflinks. He has an affinity for silver and will beg unceremoniously to get it if he sees it.

He laughs a lot, except when Enjolras is around. At those times, he stares, and listens, and stares.

Occasionally, he sings to him.

* * *

 

 

“Combeferre, tell me  _ everything you know  _ about sirens,” Enjolras demands one night.

“You think he’s not a mermaid, then?”

“I think they’re the same thing.”

“Come now, Enjolras. Grantaire is a charmless, ugly, jaunty, raunchy, ridiculous mermaid who completely, utterly fails at his task and has never once fucked up a sailor's life. But a  _ siren _ ?”

“Did you hear his  _ voice _ ?”

“Pliny the Elder wrote that sirens were a myth in the first century.”

“Pliny also described sightings of  _ mermaids _ off the coast of Gaul. He said their bodies were covered all over in scales, and they found washed up mermaid corpses all the damn time.”

Combeferre blushes. “Yes. Well. I wager he would have been quite surprised to meet your Grantaire.”

“ _ My _ Grantaire,” Enjolras splutters, “how dare--”

“Sirens,” Combeferre continues, ignoring him. “Well. Depending on what you read, there are between two and five of them.”

“Any schoolboy could recall that much,” Enjolras answers, striving for patient and just missing it.

“Though stories vary wildly, they are always accounted as dangerous creatures, luring in sailors.”

“Were they always female?”

“Not in the oldest stories, but in the more recent histories, yes.”

“Hmm. And they had enchanting voices and songs to draw sailors in, to shipwreck on their rocky isles.”

“Indeed, though some have claimed they sung sailors to sleep, then climbed aboard to murder.”

“Well, no one is claiming that Grantaire is apt to lull anyone. Antagonize them to death, maybe.”

“I agree. Pliny’s accounts of them include a similar tale, of lullaby.”

“I always think of them as being sensual females in form.”

“An artifice of later artistic interpretation, I think, though I may be wrong. I believe originally they were half animal. Perhaps bird, to match the beauty of their voices.”

“Well. He is certainly not a bird.”

“Nor beautiful.”

Enjolras eyes him. “You do think him ugly, then.”

Combeferre shakes his head. “Ah, Enjolras. I sometimes wonder that, in being such a handsome man, you have no value of others’ perceived wiles.”

“I just don’t see what makes one more lovely than another.”

“And therein lies your charm.”

* * *

 

 

They come across Grantaire again, this time on some small islands in the middle of nowhere.

They appear as if from nowhere, through a mist that comes on from seemingly nowhere at all.

“The Sirenum Scopuli,” Combeferre whispers.

The rocks are high and sharp, rocky against the dimness of the evening light. Enjolras has them stop far out so they might not run aground on sharp rocks lurking beneath the waves near the edges.

There is an eerie silence. And then a splash.

Enjolras is about to give them a signal to make a wide berth around the rocks and move on when they all hear a musical, slightly annoyed laugh.

“Are you  _ following _ me?”

The crew runs to the starboard bow. There, bobbing in the waves with an eyebrow raised, is Grantaire, looking a little put out.

“These islands weren’t here,” Enjolras demands. “We came through these coordinates  _ exactly _ going the other way!”

Grantaire narrows his eyes at him. “So… are you following me?”

Enjolras growls. “I don’t know where here is!” he shouts. “How could I follow you here?”

“This is a magic place,” someone whispers.

“A cursed one, you mean,” someone else mutters.

Enjolras shushes them all with an imperious wave of his hand.

Grantaire, watching him, sighs feelingly.

“I will guide you out,” he calls. “Follow me closely, you’ll lose half your hull if you don’t.”

Enjolras feels vaguely proud of his caution in approaching the rocks, and nods.

* * *

 

 

“Sir!”

“Stop it, ‘Ferre.”

“Enjolras, then.”

“Speak your mind.”

“The place we found Grantaire.”

“What of it?”

“I think it is ephemeral. Meaning it isn’t a fixed location. I don’t think it  _ can _ be.”

“I have no time for this. Would you like me to ask him?”

“Yes!”

“Ask him yourself! He listens to you.”

Combeferre scoffs. “Come now, Enjolras. We all know he likes you best.”

Enjolras blushes. “I know no such thing.”

“Then you are a fool, and we are fools for calling you our captain.”

* * *

 

 

“This is inexcusable.  _ Inexcusable! _ ”

Enjolras is storming around the ship, in a mad fury. Courfeyrac seeks to calm him, but he won’t be calmed. Combeferre, for his part, is too miffed to even  _ want  _ to calm him down.

“No, Courfeyrac, he’s gone too far now.”

“Enjolras, you know how he longs for shiny things, small things, he must have just--”

“Our  _ compass _ ? We need that to  _ live _ \--”

“We’re not  _ sure _ he took it, and I’m certain he’ll bring it back if we ask--”

“How?  _ How?!  _ We don’t know how to find him, we just, what,  _ wait around _ ?”

“Well, he’ll show again--”

“We don’t see him for weeks, sometimes months! We may never see him again--”

“Oh, don’t say that, Enjolras, be reasonable--”

* * *

 

 

It is nine days until Grantaire visits them. Cowed and horrified at Enjolras’ rage, he brings it back seven hours later - along with two more compasses they’ve never seen before.

He leaves without saying a word, ashen-faced and humiliated.

“I like to think he has a grotto somewhere, deep under the waves, where he has piles of shiny useless trinkets he doesn’t really understand,” Courfeyrac tells Joly conversationally.

“In Finfolkaheem?”

“You’re getting your stories crossed, mate.”

Enjolras is in a black mood for three more days, and a melancholy one for three weeks.

Until Grantaire peeks at Combeferre during one of his watches, quietly asking for another story.

Combeferre launches into a loose interpretation of Babylonian gods who may or may not have been mermaids.

Enjolras joins them eventually, quiet, and Grantaire smiles, just a little.

* * *

 

 

They are celebrating coming of spring in the way of all sailors: pleasure for the calm, and prayers for the storms. Jehan has come into some particularly good wine, and they are revelling well when Grantaire appears, nearer to shore than they usually find him.

Enjolras observes that he may well be drawn to the wine like a cat to catnip.

Grantaire has many times enjoyed their more carefree past-times: the playing of games of dice and cards, telling tales, carving, drawing, practicing knots, making models, and above all, the playing of musical instruments.

Grantaire dearly loves to hear them sing, though they often harass him for not singing along himself, with his beautiful voice.

He is particularly enamored with sea shanties, though they sing none now-- he loves the practicality of it, having something to work to, that passes the time, keeps the work moving, and is fun.

“It seems to me that humans toil a great deal,” Grantaire observes, well into his cups.

“Yes, and on that,” Joly hiccups, “what do mermaids do for work?”

“ _ For work _ ? I don’t take your meaning.”

“To earn your keep, to get money.”

“Bossuet gives me money,” Grantaire giggles, which is true-- Bossuet loves nothing better than to give Grantaire a penny and watch him gleam, like a babe.

Enjolras smiles at him, and Grantaire sighs.

“It does raise interesting questions, about mermaid society,” Enjolras muses.

Joly nods. “So true. Grantaire, how long do you expect to live?”

Grantaire, drunk, turns on him in a snap. “Is that a threat?!”

Enjolras and Combeferre share a look.

“No, no,” Joly breezes. “I meant, at a guess. A human man, he’s lucky to live eighty years, you see.”

“Do you wish to see a mermaid corpse?”

Enjolras looks at him uneasily. It is always a little hard to tell with Grantaire, when he’s teasing or telling the truth or dangerously close to anger.

“I’ve seen one!” Jehan replies gaily. “In a sideshow off the square where me mam used to buy vegetables. They called it a Jenny something or other.”

“I’ve seen what happens when you dry out a skate,” Combeferre says. “A Jenny Haniver is a fake, and no mistake.”

Grantaire looks very interested in that, so they all have to explain while Jehan explains in detail about traveling shows that promise looks at freaks and creatures of dreams and also sell tasty foods, and then as Combeferre explains why it’s all illusions and tricks.

“But Grantaire,” Enjolras interrupts impatiently, “why did you ask about corpses? How could we see them?”

Grantaire laughs, seeming to remember himself. “Ah, yes.” He gestures at where the waves are lapping against the side of the boat. “There’s one now. Maybe more, who can tell.”

They all peer offside, seeing nothing. Grantaire laughs again, darker.

“The foam, my boys,” he whispers. “That’s what’s to become of us when our three hundred years are done.”

Enjolras gapes at him. “It isn’t possible!”

Grantaire smiles a bitter smile and says nothing.

“Impossible is right,” Combeferre whispers, but he looks doubtful. “Grantaire, it can not be true.”

“No legend here,” Grantaire slurs, “I’ve seen it myself.” And he tips over the railing splashing into the water.

“He’ll drown!” Jehan cries. “He’s drunk himself stupid.”

Grantaire floats to the surface, lazily, seemingly unaware of them. He catches sight of them just before breaching the surface, startles visibly, and kicks off down to the depths in an instant.

“He’s a mermaid, Jehan,” Bossuet says, clapping him on the shoulder and heading off for the mess. “He’s more like to drown  _ up here _ when he’s drunk, if you think about it.”

* * *

 

 

Enjolras takes a lonely watch the next time Grantaire visits, a pitch black night with barely any moon at all.

“Grantaire,” he says. “I’m glad to see you.”

“You are?” Grantaire eyes are wide, and so dark.

“I always am.”

Grantaire takes his hand, allows himself to be pulled aboard. “I’m glad, too, which you must know, else I wouldn’t come back so.”

“You don’t like being below the sea?”

“That is not what I meant.”

“What’s down there?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you trees? Shrubbery? How far and wide does seaweed extend, or shells? What grows beneath the waves?”

“Darkness,” Grantaire answers carefully. “And hope.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “It seems a mysterious life.”

“Does it? When a man goes overboard, the ocean claims him, you say.”

“We do.”

“How well do you see what happens?” Grantaire utters darkly. “Have you ever watched a man drown? Have you seen keelhauling in actual practice?”

Enjolras pales. “I don’t torture men on my ship.”

Grantaire smiles thinly. “No doubt. But you’ve seen it done.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve seen it up close.” Grantaire drinks, thoughtful. “The ocean offers a clarity of her own. Seems an awful thing, to be a mortal man.”

“It can be,” Enjolras says, honest.  
  
They don’t say anything for a long while. Enjolras draws in a few, vaguely uneven breaths.  
  
“Did you ever save a drowning man?”  
  
Grantaire won't look at him.  
  
“I see.”  
  
“It is forbidden,” Grantaire says, desperate, turning and catching the look in Enjolras' eye.  
  
“Oh. You're an ardent follower of the rules?”  
  
“Well, not always,” he confesses. He gestures between them. “This is forbidden, too.”  
  
“Talking to me?” Grantaire nods. “So why risk it?”  
  
“I have poor impulse control,” Grantaire says evasively. “In some respects.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I envy your freedom, most days.”

“But you’re free, too!” Grantaire insists, eyes wide and liquid. “The ocean calls you, and you go to her, and are not bound to the land.”

Enjolras hums, unimpressed. “Do you wish to go on land?”

Grantaire laughs, dryly. “I’m not sure. The things you say… sometimes they frighten me.”

“I? Frighten you?”

Grantaire stares down into the inky black of the waves. “More than you know.”

The silent stretches out between them, and it seems insurmountable.

“Is it enough that I wanted to?”  
  
“Wanted to what?”  
  
“Save them?” Grantaire pleads. His black eyes are fathomless. "I wanted to, with all my heart. Does that count for anything, Enjolras?"  
  
Enjolras looks away.” I don't know,” he says eventually.  
  
When he turns back, Grantaire is gone.

* * *

 

They don’t see him for weeks upon weeks.

Enjolras passes his birthday, unremarked.

Courfeyrac comes up beside him at the wheel, places a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees.

“The voyage goes well, captain. The crew is well-fed, with coin enough. You keep us active, we see the world, we’re never pressed to service.”

Enjolras smiles. “Why do you say this?”

Courfeyrac doesn’t let go of his shoulder. “It could have been worse, Enjolras. We know that now; if we had met any other, the outcome would have been dire. We could have met disaster, or wreck, or ruin.”

* * *

 

 

Later that night, watching the waves, Enjolras murmurs, “You could be the ruin of me.”

* * *

 

 

Four months later, Jehan comes sprinting into his room.

“Captain! Sir!” he wails.

“What, Jehan? Speak freely!”

“He’s back. He’s  _ back!” _

When Enjolras gets above deck, the crew is gathered at the starboard side. They make way for him.

“I don’t know where he went, Boss,” Bahorel says. “He was just here, but he went under.”

“Is true,” Feuilly says gravely. “I saw him.”

Grantaire appears again. Enjolras reaches out, leaning out over the edge to pull him in.

Grantaire takes his hands, and he pulls him into the ocean.

“See,” Feuilly says into the stunned silence. “Was  _ rusalka  _ after all.”

* * *

 

 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras coughs, choking out water. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

Grantaire thrashes in the nearby water but says nothing. He has deposited Enjolras on a group of small, rocky islands. Enjolras thinks it might be the same place he found Grantaire before, but he’s too mad to focus or care.

“What the  _ hell _ , Grantaire! You disappear for months, without a word, then--”

“I couldn’t do it.”

Enjolras’ tirade stops in its tracks, and he really looks at Grantaire. He looks--- bad. He looks stricken, and thin, and while his color never looked healthy, per se, it certainly looks worse now.

“Couldn’t do what?”

“I mean, I could have. I  _ could  _ have! We actually have a long history of it, of-- of  _ taking _ , when we want, usually unsuspecting fishermen, or frolicking youth, near the shore-- it’s an easy way to bond someone, but at what cost? Having them  _ hate _ you?” Grantaire babbles. “And everyone frowns on it anyway, says that’s for the desperate and the confused, and sure, heh, I’m definitely  _ desperate _ , but not in that way!”

“Grantaire--”

“And then there are ways, oh sure, there are  _ ways _ I could do it myself, it’s not unheard of, taking the form. I know someone who tried it once, became human;

She visited a sea witch, and I know one in particular who would pay  _ dearly _ for my voice, she told me so herself, on my twenty first birthday-- it’s possible, possible to become human, Enjolras, but the  _ cost _ .”

Grantaire is raving, and Enjolras is cold, and wet, and deeply, deeply confused.

“The pain; the abject suffering, bleeding out of your legs, agony in every step? It’s supposed to be torture. And then,  _ then! _ Once I became human? I could never return to the sea, no matter your reaction, no matter if you hated, or, or-- and it isn’t even a guarantee! Of a soul! In fact, it is  _ really fucking unclear _ what I have to do-- be in love, or be loved, or be kissed?! No one knows, except that if it doesn’t take, or if the other person is  _ unfaithful _ , then I definitely  _ die.  _ How do you even define  _ unfaithful _ in these terms? What can--”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras cuts him off. “What are you saying? What is all this?”

“I have despaired,” Grantaire whispers, “over the things I could do to be with you.”

Enjolras gapes, and starts to speak, and finds he can say nothing.

“And I would do it, Enjolras. I would suffer, and burn, and risk death-- but not yours. The stakes aren’t worth it-- I could never do anything to hurt you. Because…”

“Because?”

“Because I love you. I love you, you great, big, stupid, honorable, upright,  _ human _ little shit.” He swims forward and takes Enjolras’ hand. “And if I’m willing to sacrifice my whole self to be with you, then I have to be able to sacrifice my  _ being with you _ , to-- to keep you safe.”

“Grantaire, dear Grantaire,” Enjolras says at last. “I think I understand. Except for one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Why would you need to change, to be in love with me?”

Grantaire blinks three times in quick succession.

“But I’m a mermaid.”

“A merman, surely.”

“Well, yeah, that, too,” Grantaire blushes.

Enjolras smiles. “I fail to see the problem.”

Grantaire stares at him for a long while. “My God,” he says eventually. “I’ve fallen in love with an idiot.”

“I,” Enjolras rejoins, “am brilliant. I am also capable of loving you. You, as you are.”

“Enjolras, you--- you cannot just-- I’m merfolk!”

“I noticed!”

“I’m also a  _ man _ .”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Grantaire sputters. “This cannot be!”

Enjolras continues to smile, radiant. “Well. What would you change about me?”

Grantaire’s tail slaps the water, indignant. “Change?  _ Change?  _ What claim have I, to change perfection?”

“Well, there you go.”

Grantaire fumes. “You’ve tricked me.”

“The truth is never deceitful,” he announces, “and you are a terrible judge of character. Now, take me back to my ship.”

* * *

 

 

Later, much later, after Enjolras has given the news to the very unsurprised crew and much wine has been brought forth to celebrate, Grantaire takes him aside.

“I’m not getting in the water again right now,” Enjolras warns, “I’ve only just changed.”

“All that you would sacrifice for me, Enjolras… I can’t ask it.”

“And what am I losing Grantaire?”

“A life on land. A wife. A home.”

“I think your calculations are off,” Enjolras muses, pulling him close by the hands, flush with the ship.. “After all, a sailor spends 300 days of the year on the ocean. Shall I marry someone, maybe some hapless girl on the shore, have her wait 300 days a year, hoping I don’t die, for the scant 65 I can devote to her?”

Before Grantaire can complain again, or wheedle, or plea, Enjolras kisses him, gently. Grantaire gasps a little into his mouth, and fumbles to kiss him back. Enjolras slows him down, moves to deepen the kiss, moving one hand to his hair to hold Grantaire’s face close to his.

After a few moments, Grantaire pulls away, shakily, and looks down at his form in the water. He frowns.

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“I was--- it felt so…” Grantaire huffs. “It felt like magic; I thought maybe, you know, my body was changing or something.”

“Changing?”

“You know, true love’s first kiss, or what have you, from your fairy tales.”

Enjolras chuckles, and Grantaire blushes. “I have to admit, that would be fairly disappointing for me.”

“Perhaps I have ruined you after all,” Grantaire says sadly. Enjolras smacks him, lightly. “I guess I couldn’t fail at it forever. Maybe I am a decent merman after all.”

* * *

 

 

Most sailors claim to be in love with the sea.

Enjolras knows the sea loves him back. 

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this as a fic composed almost entirely of dialogue, but it was too confusing to follow; I tried to keep the spirit of it, anyway.  
> I spent a lot of time reading up on various water-folk mythos from across Eurasia (so there’s lots of dumb Easter eggs for you folklorists), but I spent just as much if not more time on merchant sailing vessel life, only to skim over it. (I also grew up with 2 maritime history enthusiasts in my house.) Some of the details are not wholly accurate, but you can ask my wife about how hard I strove and studied for accuracy in this tiny ficlet, so I beg your indulgences with my creative license.  
> Fun fact: merchant vessels (unlike military craft) were frequently cross-national, both modernly and historically, but as long as they could communicate with each other on board, it was cool. It is also true that, in contrast to naval crews, they really did keep their numbers as few as possible, mostly for financial reasons - a bigger split of the income, as well as to stretch their resources. (Did this make them vulnerable to pirates? Why, yes it did - they were the main target of pirates, actually. Which was why merchant vessels were always armed, and sometimes heavily, if they could manage it.)  
> Enjolras’ measure of the days spent at sea is actually generous - sailors might be on the same voyage for years at a time with very few days ashore if any, though this was a little different among merchants.  
> There is so much really fascinating marine history out there, especially about the Age of Sail - a lot of it incredibly dark, a lot of it incredibly compelling. Maybe someday I’ll write a longfic with a more specific time frame, course, and details - but that is a lot of work to not be paid for.
> 
> (Also, if you would like to support these shenanigans furthers, you could [buy me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/B0B3111IZ), maybe?? <3 )


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